


Beyond Love and Hate

by Gon (pepperedfox)



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, M/M, im gonna write all the rarepair content i've ever wanted, probably going to be a general collection of fics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 08:25:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19314358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pepperedfox/pseuds/Gon
Summary: “Do you wish, perhaps, that you were more like Gerda?”“What sort of foolish question is that? Demons beyond love and hate shed no tears. No— what I mean to say is: I am what I am. The embodiment of jet-black resentment. A corrupted Virgil, leading lost souls into hells they cannot emerge from. There is no changing my true nature.”“And you are satisfied with that?”A long silence. For the briefest of moments, the mask of Monte Cristo faltered. “If I were satisfied, Andersen, I would not be an Avenger.”---A literary creation and an author have a talk about stories.





	Beyond Love and Hate

“Why Gerda?”

The question surprised Andersen. The Count of Monte Cristo, while a frequent visitor to the study, rarely made conversation. He was a being cloaked in shadow who preferred to deliver the writers’ coffee in stoic silence. Yet here he was now, calmly meting out just the right amount of sugar as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

Andersen set his tablet on his desk. “Why what?”

“I took the liberty of reading a few of your works during my free time. And I can confidently say that Gerda’s fate is unlike you.” Monte Cristo stirred the coffee, each clink of the spoon bright and tinny like a bell. “She and the little mermaid are but one and the same. Both are lovelorn girls who heedlessly sacrificed everything for their object of affection. Why grant Gerda a happy end, but punish the mermaid?”

Human observation came naturally to Andersen, whether he wanted it to or not. Some Servants could look at this scene and predict the final act. Andersen looked at it and saw too much of the actor. He saw how Monte Cristo always buttoned his shirt up to the neck; how his hands were always gloved, by either shadow or cloth; how he carried himself with the dignity of a wounded beast. They’re the defenses of a man twice betrayed by the world, and they goad Andersen to try them.

The promise of a challenge made his heart salivate. He hated it. “You’re the last person I’d expect to worry over happy endings, Edmond Dantes.”

“A demon such as myself savors the bitter taste of tragedy,” Monte Cristo answered coolly. “It is the inconsistency I find curious, Caster.”

“Authors are a fickle, contrary breed. If you want consistency, pester an accountant.”

The spoon’s melody died. A terse silence fell as Monte Cristo set the steaming cup before Andersen. “My sincerest apologies for troubling you with such a foolish question, then,” he said with frigid politeness. “I shall take my leave.”

It would be easier to let him go. Idle conversation distracted from unfinished manuscripts and looming deadlines. Loneliness was a prerequisite for art, especially so for fairy tales, and Andersen made it clear to Chaldea that he was an unpleasant, prickly Servant to collaborate with. Better to send them away than to let them in. It was safer that way for both parties involved.

But Monte Cristo took the time to read his stories. That was an effort Andersen couldn’t overlook, no matter how much poison he spat.

“Avenger, wait.” The man stopped, his golden gaze demanding a reason. “I spoke out of turn. This is why you shouldn’t chat with authors. Their true personalities will always disappoint you, and they’ll ruin your memory of their stories. Sit, why don’t you?”

Monte Cristo regarded him as a tiger would an intruder before slowly taking a seat. With one hand, he searched his coat and drew out a battered pack of cigarettes. To his mild surprise, Andersen recognized it as a favorite brand among the staff. Someone liked Avenger enough to share.

“Which ones did you read?” Andersen asked.

“All of them.” Monte Cristo shook free several sticks. He took one and offered none. “Including your novels.”

For once, Andersen found himself speechless. “You slogged through all that filth?”

“Are you criticizing my tastes?” Not a question or an accusation, but a warning, highlighted by sharp, golden eyes. A sensible man would backtrack.

Andersen wasn’t a sensible man.

“I’m questioning your patience. If that means offending your pride, then so be it. The fact remains: you swam through the sludge that was my early work. I wouldn’t demand that of any acquaintance or friend.” In the palpable pause, he realized how harsh the words sounded. He tried again, awkward. Gentler. “You’re the first to do so.”

The unexpected happened: Monte Cristo laughed. It was a sharp and quick sound, like ice cracking in the winter air, all bite with no softness to pad it. “Ha, I see now! You’re embarrassed.”

“I’m _surprised_ , is what I am!” Andersen insisted, knowing neither of them would believe the lie. “My rubbish has been embarrassing me for centuries now, I’m over it. Look, what you’ve done is the equivalent of your coworker whipping out the baby pictures he wrangled from your mother.”

“Mortified, then.” Monte Cristo was now smiling. “I must interrupt your tirade, amusing as it is. You may think poorly of your writing – I am certain many authors do – but I, as a reader, was entertained. Call your tales shoddy, call them infantile, whatever you wish. All I ask is for you to accept my compliment as sincere, for that was my true experience.”

Andersen picked up his coffee. The hot drink steamed his glasses. “Fine, I’ll concede. Thank you.”

Tension still laced the air, though it had now subdued from a mutual wariness to a mutual awkwardness of two distant acquaintances trying to find even footing. Monte Cristo put the cigarette between his lips. Shadows gathered in the palm of his gloved hand, then faded to reveal a beaten lighter. Andersen watched as he sparked it with a practiced flick of his wrist. The flame burned red – not purple. In spite of the power at his fingertips, Avenger seemed averse to using it outside of battle.

“Now that your ego’s been placated, about my question…”

“Yes, yes, I haven’t forgotten. It’s a complicated answer, so we’ll have to take it from the top. First off: what did you think of ‘The Little Mermaid?’”

“It is a tale of pain as much as it is a tale of love. A story that recounted the selfless sacrifices the mermaid made for the sake of a man who’d never acknowledge her, and how she was rewarded with death. It was masterfully written and elevated the complex agony of the mermaid to a feast that’d sate any twisted soul.”

“So, you see it as a tragedy.”

Monte Cristo raised a fine eyebrow. “Should I see it as anything but?”

“The author’s domain ends where the reader’s opinion begins. That’s all I’ll say on the matter! Now, what about ‘The Snow Queen?’ I’d imagine a creature such as yourself was gravely disappointed by the ending.”

“On the contrary, Caster, it further piqued my interest. This was a tale in which love prevailed. I see it as a foil, if you will, to ‘The Little Mermaid’s’ message.”

“And what would that message be?”

“Love alone cannot save the soul, regardless of its passion. Yet you permitted Gerda’s tears to avert a despairing end. Such mercy is rare for an author who’s built his legacy upon woe.”

“Mercy,” repeated Andersen. “That’s an interesting word to attribute to an author. You’ve clearly read what I’ve written. What makes you think I was thinking of ‘mercy’ in the first place? Shakespeare would say good drama stems from human suffering – something to be capitalized upon when the characters are fictional.”

A change came over Monte Cristo. His jaw clenched ever-so-slightly and he inhaled a hair sharper; a flash of anger, quickly erased with that cold marble mask – all subtle details Andersen’s analytical eye picked up. “You speak of Shakespeare’s views, but not your own,” he said. “I can tell you enjoy cyclical discourse. So, let me be direct: state your point plainly, Andersen.”

Certain Servants warranted great care. Berserkers were an obvious group, while the Avengers often went undetected. With Ritsuka’s calming influence, it was easy to forget that Avengers were existences formed solely of hatred. Heroic Spirits were often summoned with a wish or a dream. These Servants – they were summoned with hellfire. Dance too close, and you’d be reduced to ash.

So, Andersen shouldn’t – no, he absolutely couldn’t laugh. But he leaned back in his seat and laughed anyway. Monte Cristo stared at him, startled like a cat caught by the light.

“Then you’ve chosen a piss-poor conversation partner,” Andersen said, a little more cheerful. “All authors are pretentious blowhards who need layers upon layers of metaphors to open their hearts even the tiniest of cracks. Well! I may be a miser with my emotions, but for a studious reader such as yourself, I’ll be direct.”

“… so you say, yet you’re meandering again.”

“It’s called the build-up, you novice – oh, forget it, I can see you rolling your eyes at me. Here is my point: Gerda’s love and the little mermaid’s love are the one and the same. The latter perished after giving all of herself. That is a possible outcome of love. The former succeeded after giving all of herself. That, too, is a possible outcome of love. Fantasy is a reflection of how the author perceives reality. One happy ending in a field of tragedies has nothing to do with mercy, and everything to do with the reality I see. It is my role to commentate, not to resolve.”

Monte Cristo exhaled, filling the air with smoke. “I see. Though the embellishments you and Shakespeare create appear similar, they are fundamentally different. His rouses the heart by hiding a thrilling fantasy within a mundane reality. Yours stills the heart by packaging a heinous reality within a fanciful fantasy. The devil’s mirror was you all along.”

“But of course. I’m a misanthrope. This heart of mine yearns for misfortune.”

“Still, you granted Gerda peace.” Ashes, fine and black, drifted from Monte Cristo’s cigarette. “Even the little mermaid was given the chance to obtain a human soul. Though your endings may not be happy, they often feel… hopeful.”

Poisonous words gathered on the tip of Andersen’s tongue out of instinct, threatening to burst into a stream of _you don’t know any better_ , of _you don’t know how I felt while writing them_. He swallowed it all down by taking a long sip of coffee. He didn’t stop drinking until the urge to protest was drowned.

(It helped that the coffee was perfect, as always. How did Avenger manage to learn Andersen’s tastes so quickly?)

“You call yourself a demon beyond love and hate,” he said at last. “Why would such a demon care about a fairy tale writer’s depiction of love?”

“… it was Gerda’s determination that caught my attention.” Monte Cristo met Andersen’s eyes – an open challenge. A hint of bitterness snuck into his words. “You have read my story.”

“As did everyone else in Europe.”

“Then you understand my fascination with such protagonists. Gerda was willing to sacrifice everything to achieve her goal. She gave all of herself to reach a boy lost to the frozen abyss. That—”

“—is the inverse to your journey,” Andersen quietly finished.

A cruel smile spread across Monte Cristo’s face. It was his turn to bark a laugh, mocking and hoarse. “Yes. Yes, it is! For my revenge, I sold my soul so I could drag others to Hell! I warped my very core with the _mythologie_ to attain the power I sought! Now you see why it is only natural for me to admire the same tenacity in others.”

It was a perfectly delivered response. The way Avenger sneered the words, how he coated them with a layer of terrible relish, made him sound every bit the demon he proclaimed himself to be. But the little details still didn’t add up. Andersen set down his cup.

“Dantes—”

“Do not speak that name.” Monte Cristo was no longer smiling. “Edmond Dantes is not here and should not be spoken of, Hans Christian Andersen.”

Andersen ignored the warning. “Do you wish, perhaps, that you were more like Gerda?”

“What sort of foolish question is that? Demons beyond love and hate shed no tears. No— what I mean to say is: I am what I am. The embodiment of jet-black resentment. A corrupted Virgil, leading lost souls into hells they cannot emerge from. There is no changing my true nature.”

“And you are satisfied with that?”

A long silence. For the briefest of moments, the mask of Monte Cristo faltered. “If I were satisfied, Andersen, I would not be an Avenger.”

In the end, Heroic Spirits were only retellings of a life. Andersen knew it as well as anyone. Everything about his form, with its abnormal youth and its painful scars, was a result of his legacy. But an Avenger was born to hate. What was it like, to be a creature whose wound never healed, a wild thing fated only to want and never have?

“If you were so resigned,” Andersen said, “you wouldn’t have saved our Master. That was the work of Edmond Dantes, not Avenger.”

“ _I am not him!_ _Don’t say that name!_ ”

Fury exploded as a roar from Monte Cristo. He slammed his gloved fists on the table, teeth bared in a snarl. Gone were the traces of the man. Only the beast remained as he leaned in, hell sparking from his mouth, hotter than a raging inferno. So great was the heat from those black flames that the most primal part of Andersen’s brain seized control, overriding all thought. _Get away_ , _get away—_

In his instinctive panic, Andersen shoved back his chair too hard and too fast. Gravity did the rest. Down he went with a yelp.

Monte Cristo stalked towards the fallen writer lying stunned on the floor. Hissed, “I am the jealous shade that poisons the hearts of men. The burning despair of those abandoned by God! The specter forever condemned to howl and rage in the rotting halls of Chateau d’If! Edmond Dantes escaped Hell, but I am Hell itself!”

There was a wildness in Monte Cristo’s eyes, the frenzy of a carnivore tasting first blood, daring Andersen to move or speak. Then he snarled, turned on his heel, and melted into the shadows, leaving only the burnt stench of singed hair.

Andersen breathed out. He sat up slowly and pinched his nose bridge.

“Well, well, well.” Shakespeare, who’d been napping on the sofa, also sat up. “That was some heated discourse.”

“Were you listening the whole time, you roach?”

“Naturally. Good material is often mined from these little moments. Though, given passionate performance our esteemed server delivered, I’d elevate this fight to the status of a superb drama. Bravo, Andersen! Bravo, Avenger!”

“Watch your mouth. If he catches you saying that he’ll come back and kill us both.”

“Oh, he is not the type to do that,” Shakespeare said breezily. He stretched his arms over his head, looking as satisfied as a cat in a sunny spot. “Your analysis of his character was accurate. He is a man chained by the weight of his legend, straddling the line between fiction and reality! The inherent tragedy of his duality as the Count of Monte Cristo and Edmond Dantes is sublime. Dumas truly created a masterpiece.”

The coffee Monte Cristo had earlier prepared stained the carpet as a dark blot. What a waste. Unpleasant as he was, Andersen hated seeing goodwill squandered. There’d been no reason for Monte Cristo to go out of his way to service the authors. And now that Andersen ran his mouth, he doubted they’d see him again. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

“Gush all you want, playwright. This pointless tiff’s thrown me off my rhythm. I can’t be expected to write after this debacle! I’m going out for a walk.” Shakespeare crooked an eyebrow but said nothing. Andersen immediately rounded on him. “What’s with that smug look on your face? If you’ve got commentary to give, spit it out!”

“Andersen, my friend, the joy of our collaborations stem from the differences between our styles. You seek to humanize what cannot be human.” Shakespeare winked. “Such an idealistically-driven approach truly suits a virgin such as yourself.”

“Virgin, chad, what’s the difference?” Andersen said. “We’re both assholes.”

Shakespeare was still roaring with laughter when Andersen closed the door.

 

* * *

 

Unsurprisingly, hunting down the Count of Monte Cristo was a herculean task in itself. Avenger guarded his privacy with utmost care and made a point not to mingle too long with his fellow Servants. Only one person, their airheaded Master, knew where to find him. “He won’t answer the first time you knock,” Ritsuka said. “But if you keep at it, he’ll open up.”

In other words: be persistent and be annoying. Both were Andersen’s strong suit.

On the third series of knocks, Monte Cristo’s door opened a crack. Those golden eyes narrowed upon seeing who it was. “I’ve no business with you, Caster.”

“Hold your horses. I’m here to make amends.”

“I do not forgive, nor do I forget.”

“I have whiskey.”

A pause. Monte Cristo disappeared. The door slid all the way open.

It was a dark, dark room from which no light could enter or escape. Andersen heard the quiet tread of boots, the rustling of clothing, but couldn’t make out where Monte Cristo was. He hesitated.

“Come in,” Monte Cristo commanded from the shadows. He spoke with the natural authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed. “Do not test my patience.”

Light filled the room once Andersen stepped in. The space was simple, but tastefully furnished. The bookcase naturally caught his eye, and he had to smother the itch to nose at the wooden shelves. Monte Cristo brushed past him without so much a glance.

“No golden statues or lavish paintings, count?”

“Such ornaments would serve no purpose here.” The soft clinking of glass. Monte Cristo drew out two cups from the plain armoire. “I’ve no reason to play at being nobility, and my greed is for the intangible, not the material. Where is this whiskey you promised?”

Andersen pulled the bottle from his coat by the neck and set it on the table. “Right here. Consider it an apology.”

Monte Cristo turned around. Andersen suddenly realized the other Servant was dressed down. White hair spilled over in messy bangs and his deathly pallor was even paler without the shadows of his hat. No cape hid his form – he wore a dress shirt buttoned up to the neck. The gloves remained, pristine and white like snowfall blanketing the mountains. Like this, Monte Cristo looked almost ordinary. Only those strange, cross-shaped pupils broke the illusion.

“And what exactly are you apologizing for, Andersen?” he asked, low and controlled.

“For a trespass no measly bottle of whiskey can fix.” All of Andersen’s pride screamed at him to deflect. To write off what happened with a sarcastic comment or a biting observation. The struggle flashed across his face. He whipped off his glasses and looked away from Monte Cristo’s demanding gaze, as if that’d better hide his feelings. “You are an excerpt of Edmond Dantes’ story, the very embodiment of a conflict that will never reach its written resolution. I didn’t intend to rub salt in the wound.”

“What does it matter?” Monte Cristo sneered. “In your eyes, I’m only a story to be consumed. You put it well, I’m nothing but a mere excerpt. Incomplete. _Pointless_.”

“I never said anything of the sort!”

“You needn’t say anything when your actions speak well enough for you!”

“You are one of my readers!” A weak Caster like him couldn’t even dream of standing beside an Avenger, much less win in a fight. Monte Cristo could kill Andersen with a look, yet Andersen pushed on, riding his heart’s impulses that swelled in him like a great wave. “An antisocial, cynical, self-destructive reader who’s too stubborn to admit his weaknesses, yes, but _my_ reader, still! For all your flaws, you are someone indispensable to an author. Fools like you grant my stories their life. I wouldn’t be fit to hold a pen if I didn’t cherish you.”

Monte Cristo stared, wide-eyed. The weight of Andersen’s words hit him all at once, and his face burned hot.

“A-As an author, I mean.” This was quickly becoming too much. “Don’t take it the wrong way, in fact, don’t just stand there, slack jawed! We’ve only spoken once or twice, you shouldn’t be so affected—”

Monte Cristo laughed.

It was a sound unlike Avenger, whose voice was always hoarse from smoke and yelling. None of his usual bite rang in its peals, nor was there any mocking edge to it. All the ice had melted – it was a laugh as easy and soft as a spring breeze on a warm, sunny day. Human. Sincere.

“I didn’t think of it any other way until you made the suggestion.” Amusement twinkled in Dantes’ eyes. “Though, you would hardly be the first to proposition me in such a straightforward manner…”

“Shut your mouth, demon. I won’t be led astray by a man who broods in the dark like some overdressed bat! You’ve gone and ruined the mood of this conversation.”

“‘The mood.’ I see.”

“What did I just say?!”

Again, Dantes gave that warm laugh. “Be at ease, Andersen. I believe you.”

 In the grand scheme of things, it was a small misstep. For someone like Andersen, however, who prided himself on his skill with words on and off the page, he may as well have tripped down the stairs. His mouth always ran off before his mind could catch up. Most times, it worked out. Once in a while (like now) it’d all spectacularly crash and burn. Thank god Dantes turned away to pour the whiskey. It gave Andersen a brief reprieve to get a hold of himself.

“… you and Gerda aren’t so different, to tell the truth.”

“Ah, we’re revisiting our debate, are we?”

“If you wish. I’m merely clarifying the point I tried to make earlier. Despair and hope. Love and passion. Humanity is capable of achieving the greatest heights or committing unspeakable atrocities when motivated by these concepts. So it is with Gerda, when she wept for Kai’s frozen heart. So it is with you, when you enacted your revenge in Paris. When you acted as Ritsuka Fujimaru’s single light in the darkness.”

Dantes did not speak, his back still turned towards Andersen.

“I was mistaken to say ‘Edmond Dantes is still here.’ You truly are the Count of Monte Cristo, the embodiment of the revenge he undertook. Yet you are also Avenger, a Servant summoned forth to avenge the hopes and dreams stolen from the downtrodden. You may be comprised of grudges and curses. However…” Andersen ruefully smiled. “You saw the hope I carried for the world beneath my pessimistic scrawling. And for that, I thank you.”

“Your thanks is misplaced.” A soft admonishment. Dantes shook his head before he turned to offer Andersen a glass. “I spoke my mind, nothing less and nothing more.”

“How bold of you to say so. Well, count! If that’s the case, I’d like to hear more of your mind.” Andersen raised his drink, his smile widening into a smirk. “The night is still young, and I’m sick of debating that windbag Shakespeare. Come, let us talk until we’re at each other’s throats, like true scholars!”

Something changed in Dantes’ expression. What it exactly was couldn’t be said. Even Andersen’s human observation couldn’t catch such a subtle shift. But then Avenger smiled – sharp as always, with his canines flashing – only there was a light in the gold that hadn’t been there before. A glimmer of hope. He raised his glass in answer, clinked it against Andersen’s with a chuckle.

“Yes, let’s.”


End file.
